Note from a vexatious deserter
by Gayani
Summary: He's gone. Leaving nothing but a 5 sentence note. Also posted on AO3
**Note from a vexatious deserter**

A/N: Something I started writing awhile ago and lost steam on. But then when I started rewatching old episodes I felt the urge to finish it!

Also, a note on the time that Sherlock was away: I attempted to figure out the timeline of Sherlock's departure and return, and other than the 8 month timeframe, the rest of it doesn't make any sense! At the end of season 2 they mention that March wasn't that far past – which who knows what that means – and then when they return it's hard to imagine it's much later in the year than August or September based on clothing choices. All of that to say that I took some artistic license around things that could have happened during Sherlock's time away so hopefully you'll all just go with it :D

* * *

"Sherlock!" Watson hollers as she steps through the front door of the brownstone. She toes off her shoes, pulls the earphones out and unzips her light jacket. It had been a beautiful morning for a run and now she was craving a shower and a bagel from the place down the street. Sherlock preferred those bagels as well and she thought it might be nice to venture out for one during her last days as a resident of the brownstone.

When she had awoken this morning, the events of the past days had seemed like a distant nightmare. Life was moving away from Mycroft and MI6 at lightning speed. Just 36 hours after Mycroft had announced his death, she had already visited and signed the lease on her new apartment. In another 48 hours she would be moved out and starting fresh.

Sherlock seemed to be handling everything much better. The tension between them had eased tremendously and yesterday had felt normal – at least as normal as can be with Sherlock around. She was more certain than ever that they really would work through this change.

Watson decides to give Sherlock a warning on breakfast before her shower, even if he never really needed one and wanders in search of him. He wasn't in the front room, or working on his locks. "Sherlock!" She yells again as she bounds down the staircase towards the kitchen for a glass of water and Sherlock's bedroom.

"Let's go get-" Watson stops in the middle of the kitchen. In that moment she senses something is wrong. Sherlock's door is flung open; unusual to say the least. Watson steps slowly towards it, her breath caught in her lungs, fear shivering along her spine. "Sherlock?" This time her voice is a whisper.

The room is in taters, his things spread about, drawers flung open, half the contents of the closet gone. Her eyes land on the sheet of paper laying on top of the messy bed. She moves towards it without thinking and doesn't need to pick it up to make out the words. She does so anyways, because her eyes must be deceiving her. The fear vanishes and a feeling of numbness replaces it.

She can't decide if she's surprised by what he's done or that she had really expected any better.

* * *

Joan thinks about it for four hours before she pulls out her phone and goes to Sherlock's contact detail. Her thumb hovers between the text and call buttons before she finally bites the bullet and hits the phone icon. It's a useless exercise. The three chimes ring. _The number you have dialed is no longer in service._

She hangs up and punches up another number. She waits mere seconds before it's answered.

"Hey! It's me….want to meet for coffee?"

….

"Joan!" Miss Hudson's voice calls across the coffee shop and Joan stands up at the table she's snagged and receives the other woman with a warm hug.

Joan smiles warmly as they sit. "Thanks for coming."

"Well, I hear I have extra work to do this week. It's nice to have a visit before that." Miss Hudson turns an understanding gaze towards Joan.

Joan sighs in return. "I can't…he just leaves! I mean, I shouldn't be surprised, but really?"

Miss Hudson pats her hand reassuringly. "I know how he is and I still don't think it's fair. But Sherlock simply isn't good at certain things, as brilliant as he is at others."

There's a pause as Miss Hudson gives Joan a small smile. "I had an email this morning with the news. What did he say to you?"

"That's just it. He didn't." Joan shakes her head in confusion. "He just leaves a measly note and he's gone."

"Oh Joan." Miss Hudson sympathizes with a simple comforting gaze. "There's no use mulling over the shortcomings of men. Let's get you a coffee and a cookie – you deserve a little treat!"

Joan laughs softly. "Thank you for coming. It really helps."

Miss Hudson gives Joan's hand one more squeeze before heading to the counter. As Joan waits, she tries desperately to heed Miss Hudson's advice and not mull over Sherlock.

* * *

The movers will be there in the morning. Her things have been packed up, bags already sitting next to the door. She has spent the past two days ignoring the rest of the brownstone. Two days avoiding the lower level, including the kitchen. Two days pretending she had never found that letter.

Now there are no distractions left.

Joan wanders slowly down the staircase, taking a deep breath before she rounds the corner and finds herself in the kitchen, her eyes already trained on Sherlock's open door, the contents of the room sitting as she left them. Miss Hudson won't be coming by for a few more days.

She meanders inside and sighs. Part of her wants to leave it untouched, but she's never been good with unattended messes. She picks the strewn clothes up off the floor, dumps them haphazardly into the drawers and pushes them shut. The closet gets the same treatment, until the room is somewhat put away. She leaves the bed for last.

She doesn't touch the piece of paper, but pushes the minimal bedding around until it looks made.

Joan walks back towards the kitchen but stops before she reaches the threshold. She stands there undecided for several minutes, part of her urging forward, the rest pulling back, until finally the verdict is passed. She takes two steps, nearly backwards, reaches back with one hand and plucks the piece of paper off the bed. She doesn't look at it, just walks out to the kitchen shutting Sherlock's bedroom door behind her.

Once in the kitchen she considers what to do with the piece of paper. She doesn't need to read the words again to know what they say. They have been practically printed on the back of her eyelids, impossible to shake as she has packed up her life in this empty house.

She almost wants to crumple the paper up, feed it to the garbage disposal, set it on fire; anything to be rid of its physical proof. But she knows that won't help her. Instead she carefully folds it down the middle, aligning the edges so it makes a clean line. She folds it again, then again and when it is small enough to fit in the palm of her hand she stops.

She only has to spend one more night in this place and it seems like too much. Instead she goes back up the stairs, grabs her purse, puts on her shoes and walks out the front door, the offending paper tucked into her wallet.

* * *

"Joan! How was the move?" Bell calls over to Joan as she hovers at the edge of the bullpen, a rising feeling of trepidation brewing in her stomach.

She forces herself to smile at him and walks over to his desk, her fingers tapping nervously against the strap of her bag. "Ok, I'm unpacked." Joan nods slightly. "Only took me two days."

"So you're ready to get back to work then?" Bell gives her a grin. "Got bored already?" He teases. "I'm surprised Sherlock lasted so long…" He glances behind her suddenly. "Did he get distracted somewhere?"

"He's gone." Joan blurts out. She pauses, her mouth hanging open as she looks at Bell's confused face. She hadn't meant to say it like that. Not so suddenly and without preamble. She closes her mouth and furrows her brow before she slips back into her calm face forcibly. "Um…" But she can't seem to find any words to add.

"Gone…out?" Joan's eyes fall to a manila folder on his desk and stay fixed there, as if it's the most fascinating folder she has ever seen. Bell realizes something isn't quite right. "Gone on vacation?" He asks, hoping to elicit a laugh. When he gets none he inches closer, places a palm on Joan's arm. "Hey…" She finally looks up at him, her face full of sadness.

"Is he ok?" Bell asks worriedly.

"I think so…" Joan's eyes fall away again and he starts to think he has the picture. He steers her towards the Captain's office and gives a slight knock at the closed door before being waived in. By the time they take their seats and Gregson looks at her expectantly, Bell is surprised and relieved to see her usual tranquil demeanor back in place.

"Joan?"

"Sherlock left. He's gone back to London, to work for MI6. We're no longer partners." She says the words in a rush but manages to leave aside the feelings and watches as Gregson's eyebrows shoot up momentarily. The surprise is followed by what seems to be a flash of hurt. Again, she hadn't meant to spill out the information in such a way, but she's glad it's been said nonetheless.

"Just like that?" Gregson looks at Joan a bit confused, wondering how something could so suddenly change when just a few days ago they seemed as symbiotic as ever. "Did something happen?" Gregson leans forward in his chair as he searches Joan's face for answers.

"No. Yes…" Joan shakes her head, her eyes moving towards the window as she seems to get lost for a moment. "It's hard to explain." She decides to leave it at that, instead of bringing up the ludicrous notion that he has done this extreme thing because she chose to move out. She understands his twisted logic, but she's simply too exhausted from thinking it over to explain it right now.

"So, what now?" Bell asks instead of voicing the question of how Joan was doing with this. Because it was clear to him that she was not doing well. That she was upset, angry even. And he had to admit to his own anger. The fact that Sherlock would leave without a goodbye annoyed him to a surprising extent. And he doubts Holmes would have the nerve to tell her this face to face, in a reasonable way. So he suspects she did not get a goodbye either.

Joan takes a deep breath and looks at Marcus before turning back to Gregson. "I was hoping to stay on, continue to work without him."

"Of course. I wouldn't have it any other way." Gregson tells her without hesitation. He would certainly hate to lose them both. And frankly if he had to pick one, he probably got the better end of the deal. "Same arrangement as usual, if that works for you."

Joan smiles, relieved. "That's perfect."

"And you'll continue to do independent work?" Gregson asks. "Because I'd be happy to pass along referrals."

"Yes, I'll need them." Joan nods before she stands up. "Speaking of which, I have a meeting to get to, unless you need me?"

They both shake their heads no and she turns towards the door. Before she leaves, she turns back. "Thanks." With that she's gone.

Gregson turns towards Bell and shakes his head. "He really is an asshole, isn't he?"

Bell nods grimly. "More than that, I can't believe how someone so smart can be so incredibly stupid."

* * *

Four nights since Sherlock's departure. Joan is quite sure he should be in London, settled in some flat owned by his father. She was very sure she would have heard from him by now. Or so she kept convincing herself. After everything they had been through, surely he wouldn't break all ties? Certainly he wouldn't cut her out of his life?

But all of that assurance seems like the foolishness she had feared it was. The blind hope that their friendship had actually meant something real to him the way it had to her.

Suddenly a frightening thought grips her. Joan sits up in her dark bedroom, her breath caught in her throat. What if he wasn't breaking ties? What if all of this was a deception? Sherlock was always quick to remind her of their enemies.

She pulls her red sweater on as she rushes out to the living room. She finds the appropriate contacts and shoots off a few correspondences before going to her wallet and pulling the note out.

Joan takes the note to the kitchen island, flips on the lights and flattens the sheet of paper onto the granite top. She checks every square inch of it, reads and rereads the message. She thinks of every manuscript Sherlock had her read, recalls the information on handwriting, on hidden codes. Joan searches the five sentences, in what can only be Sherlock's handwriting, until the words have lost all meaning.

Finally, she pushes it away from her. More than an hour of analysis and there was nothing to be found. Not a trace or an indication of anything underhanded. No sign of Moriarty lurking in the sparse scribbles. She frowns at the note again and just as she wonders if she was being irrational, her computer chimes.

Joan scoots off the stool and nearly skids over to the laptop, barely sitting before her fingers are gliding the mouse over to the new message and clicking it open.

A series of grainy photos begins to load on her screen, shot from CCTV cameras. Sherlock in Heathrow. Sherlock walking down Gloucester Place. Sherlock entering Scotland Yard. The pictures are followed by a short message

 _Looks like he's made it just fine_

 _-Everyone_

Joan closes the email abruptly, her gaze shifting over to the note in frustration. It's apparent to her that he left on his own. He's made it to London without issue; the photos were proof of that.

There was no more convincing herself. It was time for her to accept this for what it was: Sherlock had left and there was no reason to think he'd come back.

* * *

Joan watched her mother step into the elevator and gently shut and locked her door. She turned back towards her apartment, surveying her home. Everything was in its place, the décor was tasteful, the furnishings were sparse but stylish. A new start after so many months of minimal living in the brownstone and years of hopping from one client's home to another.

Her mother had seemed pleased to see her 'living like a real adult', and that was about the most validation she expected on the topic. Of course, her mother had been less pleased regarding the news on Sherlock, even if Joan had assured her it was a mutual decision and that she was ready to be on her own. Joan had sounded convincing enough, but in this moment she was feeling…lonely.

It felt strange to be on her own. After all of Sherlock's antics; his ridiculous wake up calls, the loud noises at all hours, opening her mail and breaking into her phone; Joan had thought the peace and privacy would be a relief. But now it's almost too quiet. She was surprised to find herself missing the sound of him bounding across the wood floors. She longed to hear him holler her name, full of excitement, from three floors away. She missed him and there was no getting around it.

The sudden rush of melancholy took her by surprise. She had been filled with anger, fear, anxiety, for days now. This was the first time she had felt real sadness. Joan pushed the feeling away as she tidied up, slipped on her pajamas and crawled into bed. With the lights off the feeling envelops her once more. But she won't allow herself to cry over him, he doesn't deserve it.

* * *

The first prick of doubt is ignored easily enough. Her first case without Sherlock's brilliance to egg her on, to light her path-naturally she might feel a momentary lapse of confidence.

But it's her third case as an independent consulting detective that nearly breaks her. The nagging voice in her head (which sounds suspiciously like her mother's) that makes her question if this was all a massive mistake. Sherlock's words from that damn letter burn brightly in her corneas. Was he mocking her? Was he being cruel? Or did he perhaps really mean it? Joan stares down at the file. She misses the brownstone with its warm fireplace and creaky floorboards. She longs for the reassurance, the clarity its walls could provide. But she simply couldn't imagine it holding the same strength with only her presence to fill it.

Anxiety bubbles deep within her. What if she couldn't do this? What if she was only as good as what her former partner could provide? What if Moriarty was right - that she was nothing more than a mascot.

A flash of anger fills her at the last thought. That she could allow that megalomaniac to be right about anything was so utterly wrong. Joan squares her shoulders and rereads the file with new vigor.

When she calls Captain Gregson three hours later, answers at the ready, she is careful to keep the triumph out of her voice.

* * *

Joan opens her door to find Alfredo smiling back at her. He hands her a small bag, "It's not much really."

"Thanks, come in. You didn't have to bring anything!" Joan steps back and waves him by.

Alfredo ambles in, nodding in appreciation. "I had a hard time picturing what your own place would be like, truthfully. It's nice – the art looks great." He turns back to her again. "I'm sorry I haven't come by sooner. Been meaning to visit for awhile, just catch up with you."

Joan gestures to the kitchen island and puts on a pot of coffee. "Well I'm glad you did come by, and that you're able to help me with this case. But first things first; how have you been?"

"Good. Yeah, work is going well. I've uh….got a new sponsee."

"Oh…" Joan blinks at Alfredo. In some ways she had hoped they could avoid the topic of Sherlock, as foolish an idea as it was.

"I'm sorry. I'm sure you're sick of talking about it." Alfredo shakes his head. "I'm sick of thinking about it." He watches as Joan pours him a cup of coffee and hands him the cream and sugar. "I just was wondering…I mean I haven't heard from him at all…"

"Me neither." Joan stirs the cream into her coffee and watches the white swirl into the dark liquid.

"Right, well." Joan can hear the disappointment in his voice. When he speaks again his tone sounds more defiant. "Obviously I hope that his recovery continues and all that. But he's still an asshole."

Joan's head jerks up to find Alfredo looking at her open and earnestly. The laughter bursts out of her unexpectedly. She presses her hands into the countertop as her mirth grows. Alfredo begins to laugh too and the sound tangles and fills the space. By the time she stops giggling her stomach is sore. It feels unbelievably good.

* * *

"Elana March." Joan slaps the thick folder onto Gregson's desk and stands in front of him, arms crossed over her chest.

He taps his fingers over the manila folder and looks up at her, exasperation creeping around his features. "Not this again."

"This is the woman behind the organization. We should bring her in for questioning."

Gregson sighs softly and rubs his forehead. "Joan, you've done well here. Your solve rate is better than a lot of my seasoned detectives. You don't have to try to prove anything. And your pursuit of this is frankly causing a lot of people around here to doubt you." He looks up at her solemnly as she shakes her head.

"I'm trying to bring the head of a crime organization to justice. I don't care what that takes." Joan leans over the desk and flips the file open, flicking to various pages as she explains. "She took over the business after her husband died and replaced every man in it with a woman. She knew that no one would suspect these women and that is why no one around here is taking this seriously. The network was already there, she just took advantage of the tools at her disposal."

"Ok, ok." Gregson stands. "I'm not saying I believe, but I'm not saying I don't. So let's say you're right. I see a lot of circumstantial evidence at best. Not enough to charge her and honestly, not even enough to bring her in."

"Fine. But there will be. I will find what we need." Joan leans over and closes the file, picking it up and swiveling towards the door.

"Just-" Gregson calls out and she turns back. "Just, be careful. I have no doubts in your abilities, but you don't have anyone to watch your back. So be careful."

Joan gives him a firm look. "I can handle this." She allows him a small smile before she walks out the door, determination in her gait.

* * *

Joan's eyes are trained on the Mets' game playing on her television set. But she's having a hard time concentrating. Her mind keeps drifting to the laptop sitting on her desk. She fights the feeling for a few minutes but when she can't even muster some excitement over a homerun she flips the TV off and meanders to her desk. She thinks about going to bed, but she can't quite stop herself from sitting in front of the laptop and booting it up.

It's been more than six months. Not a single word from him. Nothing to let her know that he had settled alright in London. No correspondence during the holidays – although she couldn't say she had really been expecting any. But it didn't feel right to let this day go without a word. He was five hours ahead, so the day was almost over for him.

She hesitates as her mouse drifts over the internet icon. But then she thinks of the gift she gave him the year prior and she remembers it was no longer in its spot in his room when he left. She opens the browser but doesn't email him, it's far too direct. And at any rate, she has opened a new email to him countless times before changing her mind and deleting the draft.

She has thought about the bee board for months; has thought about checking his user id, posting a message, sharing an article; doing something and anything to get his attention. But every time she thinks she might she recalls the stupid note and reconsiders. And it's the damn note that comes to mind once more, because even as she begins to scroll through the site her anger bubbles up, viscous and hot.

Joan scowls and slams the laptop closed once more. It would be a colossal mistake. He had made himself clear, hadn't he? There was no reason he couldn't reach out, nothing to stop him. So it was painfully obvious he had no desire for their friendship. And she knew better than to try to force anything onto him.

* * *

"To Joan catching her nemesis!" Marcus lifts his beer in salutation.

Joan lifts hers in response and they clink their bottles together as she laughs and takes a drink. "Nemesis? You're starting to sound like Sherlock." The thought comes from her lips faster than she can censor herself and she struggles to keep the smile on her face at her own reference to her former partner. As long as he'd been gone, it still hurt.

Marcus swallows down his own mouthful of beer and eyes her. "Speaking of…have you heard from him?"

Joan lifts her bottle and takes a big gulp, taking the moment to find her equilibrium once more. She shakes her head as she swallows. "I'm sure he's preoccupied."

"And that's…just fine? You two were partners." Marcus probes.

Joan can't bring herself to meet his gaze. "No hard feelings."

Marcus makes a sound in the back of his throat. "Ok, let's be real here. I've been asking since he left and you keep telling me he hasn't been in touch. I wasn't that close with the guy, but I gotta admit I'm a little sore about it. So how do you really feel? Because you certainly have been generous about the whole thing."

Joan smiles softly as she thumbs her beer. "You know him Marcus. He is who is he is. What else can I say?"

Marcus gives her a knowing look, but for some reason she just can't seem to tell him how she really feels about it. How angry she is. How betrayed she feels. She doesn't know why she feels the need to protect Sherlock from Marcus' opinion, his respect. Frankly, Sherlock has probably squandered it anyways. But for some reason she can't bring herself to tell Marcus what it's been like. In a way she realizes it's the hope that Sherlock will return that makes her bite her tongue. That she doesn't want to have a negative impact on this relationship that has already had its struggles. But she can't imagine why she holds onto that hope when she's still so angry at him. Even if he came back, she can't imagine ever trusting him again.

* * *

"You haven't told me much about Sherlock."

Joan looks up at Andrew from her spot on the couch. She takes her glasses off and sighs softly. Andrew shifts his laptop away, getting up from one of the seats in Joan's living room. She is occupying the couch, multiple volumes scattered across the coffee table and the seats next to her as she reviews some readings. Several of Sherlock's manuscripts are mixed into the piles.

It's still very early in the budding relationship, but somehow they had agreed to a work session at Joan's apartment so they could make time to see each other.

Joan watches as Andrew removes the items next to her and she points to an open spot for him to place them. He seats himself next to her and peeks over her shoulder at her readings.

"Cigarette ash?" He asks softly as he wraps an arm around her shoulders.

Joan closes the book to show Andrew the cover. "One of Sherlock's writings. He has this singular focus. When there's something he wants to understand, something he feels the need to analyze, it's as if nothing else exists. He's written volumes like this on the most obscure topics you can imagine."

"And yet you read them?" Andrew teases.

Joan pauses thoughtfully. "He makes it surprisingly interesting. Truthfully he's a far better author than many of the others I've had to read….but I would never tell him that." She adds with a laugh.

Andrew chuckles with her. "So this is how you do it? Figure things out the way you do. Old fashioned studying?"

"In part." Joan nods. "It's a combination of a wide ranging knowledge and putting together pieces you would not usually think of twice."

"Well, you make it sound like anyone could do it, but I have my doubts."

"That's how I felt when I first started, but somehow Sherlock always made it seem possible." She tells him quietly.

"So he was a good teacher?"

"Yes…more so than you would think given that he's also completely ludicrous! He can be arrogant, difficult…he can also be unbelievably kind. I can promise you that you will never meet anyone quite like Sherlock Holmes." Joan hears the words and covers the feelings that emerge with a smile. Somehow Andrew reads her better than that.

"Maybe sometime you can tell me more."

Joan looks up at him and pushes her book aside. "Maybe for now there's been enough talking." She whispers as she brings him towards her for a kiss.

* * *

Watson is seething. She can't help but think how infrequently that happens. And how 90% of those events seem to come back to one man. The man she just left standing in the old brownstone blabbering about that ridiculous helmet.

The nerve of him. The absolute obnoxious, moronic, nerve. That he has the gall to invade her case. That he thinks he has a right to lecture her on anything. That he could return without a word just as he left without one.

She had been carrying on a good ruse for months now. That she hadn't been surprised by his departure. That he had left her on acceptable terms. That it was a-ok that he didn't bother to say goodbye or be in touch. That the note he left behind-

"ARGH" Watson slams her palm against the steering wheel of her car as she pushes the thought of the note out of her mind.

She has half a mind to turn back, walk into the brownstone and slap him. It would be the least he deserves. But she absolutely refuses to let him see her anger. Because that would be his proof that none of it was ok, that she had missed him, that he had hurt her so unfairly. And he didn't deserve to know those things, to have proof of her concern, her care for him. Not when he showed so little for her. Not when he had spent a year and a half telling her how wonderful she was only to disappear without a trace.

So no, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction to know that he mattered to her. And frankly, he just didn't anymore. Not after what he had done. He didn't deserve her affection. She was done with him and she planned on making that clear.

Watson accelerated through a yellow light determined. She was learning how to become a good liar, especially with herself.

* * *

"Sherlock's partner?"

"You heard me." The other woman replies defiantly as she picks herself up and brushes the dirt from her jeans.

"And why exactly are you following me?" Joan retracts and stows her baton as she looks at the younger woman. Her dark eyeliner made it seem like she was trying to look tough.

"None of your business." She shoots back as she retracts her baton. The item stays in her hand as she eyes Joan distrustfully.

Joan laughs sardonically and she sweeps a hand over her hair.

"What? Didn't think you'd be so easily replaced?" The woman goads in a thick British accent.

Joan ignores the snide comment and steps forward. "How long have you been following me? Are you trying to interfere with my case too?"

The woman seems especially young when she waivers under Joan's gaze and steps back. Joan can clearly see the uncertainty beneath her bravado. She watches as the woman lifts her chin, feigning boldness. "Like I said, not answering your questions." With that she pivots on her heel and brusquely walks away. Joan watches with narrowed eyes as she goes.

* * *

Joan lay awake in bed, staring towards the window, her scrambled thoughts keeping her awake. She had tried to be excited for Andrew; he hadn't been able to stop gushing over his new venture. But truthfully all she could really feel was a sense of dread. She had finally started to put her life in order after Sherlock's departure. Now mere weeks after his return he was tearing it apart. And it all felt so malicious.

Of course he thinks he has some right to dictate the circumstances of her life. Step one, weasel his way back to New York and the NYPD. Step two, get rid of Joan's boyfriend. Step three, get them back to where they started – her orbiting him.

She had been foolish in allowing him back to work. Completely out of her mind to agree to work with him again. She would question why she had taken such insane steps, but she knows. She missed him. Despite her best instincts, she had wanted him back in her life. And now here she was, sleepless at 2am, wishing she had known better. Scratch that – she had known better. So really, there were no excuses.

Why did she think she could keep him at arm's length? She had tried to keep a professional distance. Had attempted to give him a cold shoulder at his every intrusion; on her cases, in her life. But Sherlock had this way of getting under her skin. She cared far more for him than she wanted to. And Kitty…who would have thought she could feel such affection?

She had to put a stop to this. And first thing tomorrow she would do just that.

* * *

Watson enters her apartment with a flourish, her bag dropped by the front door, her heels quickly kicked off. There are many things she needs to do this afternoon so she can make it to Andrew's apartment in time to surprise him. But there's one thing she really must do first.

Watson moves towards her bookcase and pulls out a thick red volume. The book flips open to the desired page without any effort, and there, tucked into its binding is a familiar scrap of paper.

She picks the page up and unfurls it, her eyes casting over the words once more.

 _Accepted a posting with MI6 and am returning to London post haste. You no longer need me. Time has come to end our arrangement. Ms Hudson will be by to collect my things and clean the brownstone. The bees will be looked after but I trust you will care for Clyde._

 _-S_

It's with relief that Watson realizes the note no longer stirs anger in her. She thinks about throwing it away, but instead folds it carefully back and returns it to the pages of the book. Watson isn't quite sure why she's keeping this item that has caused so much heartache for so many months. Perhaps it's a reminder of the duality of Sherlock; the man she saw today in the Brownstone's kitchen talking about how they were 'bound' versus the one who could abandon her so easily.

Watson had gone to the brownstone ready to fight. The thought of Sherlock interfering in her life once again was far too much and there were so many raw emotions left from his departure that she was ready to hurl at him. His response had been a surprise to say the least and in that moment she realized that reopening those wounds as they had just begun to heal would be pointless. She's more than happy that Sherlock cares enough about their relationship to return to New York. Of course, that doesn't erase all the hurt she felt for so long.

She's not sure she'll ever really be over it, but she thinks now that she has forgiven him. But forgiving doesn't need to mean forgetting; and Watson knows she must remember this. He may no longer be her partner, but this day has given her hope that he can still be her friend. And even if she can't trust that history won't repeat itself, she has to at least try to trust him again. Because this morning was a reminder of everything she had missed these past 8 months and everything she hopes they can be once more.


End file.
